


The Odd Couple

by beetle



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Banter, Comedy of Errors, Coming Out, Declarations Of Love, Dudes need to pay attention, F/M, Failboats In Love, Family Feels, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Alec Ryder/Cora Harper, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Office Sex, Opposites Attract, Past Reyes Vidal/Zia Cordier, Reyder, ad agency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: “You. Me. My desk,” a low voice says from behind Reyes Vidal, heralding a long-familiar, expected whiff of Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and weed, before it pauses then adds: “Triple-time, Vidal.”In which a contrived comedy of errors is avoided by a detour into adifferentcontrived comedy of errors. Prompts in end notes.





	The Odd Couple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [squiggly_squid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiggly_squid/gifts), [ghostofshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/gifts), [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern Ad Agency AU. Not _remotely_ like _Madmen_ , no worries. Spoiler-free. Humor and angst.

 

 

“You. Me. My desk,” a low, gruff voice says from behind Reyes Vidal, heralding a long-familiar, expected whiff of Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and weed, before it pauses then adds: “ _Triple-time_ , Vidal.”

 

Then voice and whiff are gone, no doubt back to their shared office, which only Reyes can be found in with any frequency.

 

Reyes—in the midst of waiting for the ancient, temperamental copier to finish printing, collating, and stapling the handouts for the near-literal journey through fucking _Purgatory_ that passes for the Friday status meeting among the creatives at Nexus Advertising—shivers, but doesn’t even look away from his task at the breathy, _commanding_ whisper. He’s used to his art-director surprising him with similar _commands_ at seemingly random moments in their daily grind.

 

So, he ignores his racing heart and waits with weary patience for the copier to spit out its shitty reproductions of the animatic stills for the Soy-Yum! commercial campaign. Something which should be in the purview of Reyes’s art-director—he of the disturbingly affecting voice and frat boy-scent, one Scott Ryder—but since that art-director is as organized as a handful of thrown confetti, not to mention as hyper and forgetful as a puppy, Reyes has long-since taken responsibility for the printing out of mock-ups.

 

A copywriter’s work is never done, it would seem. Especially when that copywriter is paired with a brilliant, but occasionally distracted art-director.

 

When the copier is finally done, and Reyes is somewhat over-warm from the heat the damned thing throws off, he gathers his printouts and steps out of the supply room, pausing only to grab a box of _blue_ Papermate pens. Reyes prefers black and goes through pens rather slowly, but _Scott_ , for an artist, goes through them at light-speed. Mostly because he chews on them like the puppy he reminds Reyes of so frequently. Chews on, conducts symphonies only he can hear with, sticks in his sloppy/indifferent, dark man-bun (even when he’s wearing one of his ubiquitous baseball caps), gives to all _his_ writer pals, who are _always_ sans writing implements for some reason. . . .

 

Basically, Scott Ryder just loses or throws away pens like Nexus is made of them.

 

Saluting Vetra and PeeBee as he passes the water cooler—the accounts manager and AD of production salute back, and wink and wave, respectively—Reyes shortly strides into his and Scott’s office. He places the still-warm animatic stills on his own neatly organized and rather impersonal desk, which is close to the door, then glances over at Scott’s desk.

 

Scott is staring out the window, partially reclined in his swivel-chair, his face distracted and dreamy, with his sneakered feet up on his cluttered, semi-sticky desk, as always.

 

Reyes had, early in their partnership, hinted at Scott that putting one’s shoes on one’s desk was rather disgusting and unprofessional. That very same day, Reyes had come back from lunch, only to note that Scott had taken off his shoes and socks . . . _then_ put his big, _bare_ feet on his desk.

 

“Who’re you? Fred Flintstone?” Reyes had snarked after the shock had worn off. His art-director of—at the time—approximately five weeks had glanced away from the window and at Reyes, smiling absently, but with a boyish charm that was as effortless as it was guileless. Reyes had known from that moment, though it would be months before he articulated it as a conscious thought, that he was getting in over his head in a way that had little to do with his steadily rising career.

 

“Barney Rubble, actually,” Scott had said—practically drawled. “Look, I don’t wanna keep skeeving you out, Vidal. If I can avoid that by taking off my sneaks before I park my dogs on my desk, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. In the name of teamwork.”

 

Reyes’s eyes had narrowed. He’d suspected he was being trolled and deeply. But Scott Ryder’s game-face was flawless. He hadn’t cracked even a little under Reyes’s most withering stare. A fact which Reyes had simply numbered as another unpleasant oddity that was part and parcel of a larger, and even less pleasant oddity.

 

For, despite being the most talented art-director Reyes had ever met in person—let alone worked with—Scott Ryder had the personal aesthetic of an unambitious hobo. He quite literally shuffled around the already semi-casual office looking like he just rolled out of a boxcar—one that was still moving. Some days, he was scruffy to the point that even the generally slovenly writers he spent far too much time bullshitting with had been known to mock him to his face for his rumpled appearance. And that included the _Miami Vice_ -levels of stubble he could be seen to sport on any given workday.

 

And that was just the way he _looked_. His attitude and personality, though seemingly easy, were mulishly stubborn, dismayingly immature, and irresponsibly _laissez-faire_. Hints and bluntness, censure and mockery, all rolled off Scott’s impervious hide.

 

Finally, sighing, Reyes had pinched the bridge of his nose. “I . . . would prefer it if you remained fully-dressed while in this office, Ryder.”

 

“Buuuuuuut . . . shoes on the desk is gross.” Scott’s voice had been mild but concerned, and so very innocent.

 

At that point, Reyes had _really_ suspected trolling. An epic amount of it.

 

“Bare feet on a desk is _more_ gross. And even worse, it’s unprofessional.”

 

“Huh. Wow. Okay. If you say so, partner.” Scott’d gone back to staring out the window. A few minutes later, Reyes had gone to get a fortifying cup of coffee from the new Keurig machine in the kitchen. When he came back to their office, Scott’s feet were on his desk, as before, except he was socked and shod. He was staring out the window, all dreamy distraction, humming _Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better_ and chewing on a blue ink Papermate pen, because . . . _of course_ , he’d prefer _blue_ ink. Reyes, lifelong writer that he was, swore by Papermate _black_.

 

Their place of employ had clearly partnered Reyes with a savage. A trolling-savage who, despite his remarkable artistic talent, was passive-aggressively spiteful and about as mature as a petulant toddler.

 

Reyes had rolled his eyes, but said nothing further. Simply sat at his desk and started working on the copy for the Havvas Insurance print campaign in aloof silence. And _nothing,_ was exactly what had been said about the Shoe-less Incident, in the fourteen months since.

 

Now, Reyes merely takes the state of Scott and Scott’s desk as par for the course. It’s become part of his routine and deviation from it, at this point, would be more disturbing than comforting.

 

Crossing the middling distance between his desk and Scott’s, Reyes finds himself, as always, critiquing every aspect of the man, from head to toes, looks to look. He’s wearing his _Mets_ cap, today, the raggedy blue one, not the slightly-less-raggedy black one, pulled down over his dead-straight, dark-brown hair. Said hair, past Scott’s broad shoulders, almost down to the middle of his back, is tied up in its usual man-bun, by a green rubber band, and poking out through the back of the cap. Scott’s face, naturally a light-bronze in complexion, is a bit shadowed because of the cap, but Reyes has no trouble making out or at least imagining the partially concealed, but keen and hawkish features: from the high forehead and bushy, dark brows; to the deep-set, intelligent dark eyes and prominent, aquiline nose; to the almost randomly pouty-lipped mouth and strong, square jaw and chin.

 

Today’s consummate disgrace of an outfit is rather less disgraceful than usual, consisting of a faded, black t-shirt that’s slightly too large for Scott’s brawny, wide frame and bears, in fancy, golden letters, the legend: **_Come at me, Bro!_** But the olive-colored cargo shorts he’s wearing look nearly new. The sneakers, of course, are a total wash . . . a scuffed and used-to-be-white gray, and so old the brand probably doesn’t even exist anymore.

 

Between shorts and sneakers, stretch Scott’s hairy, sturdy calves, which Reyes has always found . . . distracting, for some reason.

 

Clearing his throat, Reyes stops just short of Scott’s disaster-area desk, drops the box of blue pens on a relatively clear spot, and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s a seasonable Friday in spring, so instead of his usual understated, but somewhat formal shirt and tie, Reyes is simply wearing a lightweight, grey-green sweater that matches his eyes—a gift from his closest friend, Keema Dohrgun—and a pair of worn, but still respectable grey slacks. As ever, though, his matte-black shoes are pristine and worth even more than the rest of his outfit, combined.

 

“Ryder,” Reyes says serenely, when Scott doesn’t seem to realize he has company. The other man takes his time tearing his attention away from the admittedly amazing view of the city—which Reyes had only been willing to let the other man have because if anyone _needs_ to have a majestic view for inspiration, it’s an art-director, one presumes—and meeting Reyes’s eyes. But not before giving Reyes a slow, unreadable once-over, and grinning crookedly. That strong, stubborn jaw is rather more stubbly than usual and Scott’s plush, slightly-chapped lower lip has teeth-indentations.

 

“Hey-hey, Fancy-Pants. Took your sweet-ass time, getting here,” he notes wryly. Reyes crooks his left eyebrow just as wryly.

 

“I wasn’t aware we were in a time-crunch. Aside from the Soy-Yum! animatics,” he adds. Scott rolls his eyes and straightens, swinging his feet down from his desk.

 

“Well, I _did_ say triple-time, soldier,” Scott says, pouting ridiculously, but with no clue just how affecting Reyes finds that full-lipped pout.

 

Rather than letting the always-anticipated sight fluster him, as it once had and for the better part of eight months, Reyes merely lets his gaze drift away, toward the window. In the high-rise building across the way, someone who’s probably upper-management, is playing mini-golf in his huge office. The other offices around it are either empty, or the employees in them are engaged in more productive activities.

 

“You Army-brats and your quaint militaristic idioms,” he says with an indulgent sigh. Scott laughs.

 

“Uh-huh, blow me, Vidal. _That_ bullshit’d fly _only_ if I didn’t know you were Air Force, back in the day.”

 

“Eh. But the jargon never stuck for me. I was mostly in it for the flying and the groupies.” Reyes shrugs and glances back down at Scott, smirking. The other man is blinking up at him with wide, startled eyes, for some reason. The overcast light of mid-morning slants across those dark eyes, rendering them a lighter, more golden brown.

 

“Don’t, ah . . . don’t let my _sister_ hear you call us Army-brats,” Scott finally says, pasting on a strangely anxious smile before aiming his gaze at his large monitor. “The Ryders’ve been a Marines family for five generations. Six, including Sara. The Army’s for dumbasses and the Navy’s for weirdos. The Marines mean _business_. _Semper fi_.”

 

“Fascinating,” Reyes says without inflection, and Scott laughs once more, pushing his cap back for a few moments and running a hand over his hair. It’s threaded with silver, already, though Scott’s not even forty, yet. Or so Reyes surmises. On any given day, he’s placed Scott’s age from anywhere between twenty-nine and thirty-nine. Reyes, himself, is a well-kept and boyish thirty-six. “And what does that Ryder pragmatism say about the Air Force?”

 

Scott snorts, darting an almost arch glance at Reyes. “Dad never has much to say about the Air Force. Just calls you guys bird-men and says you’re generally reliable for at least two of the four F’s that make for a well-rounded soldier. _Flying_ and _Fighting_ ,” he adds, before Reyes can even decide if he wants to know.

 

“Hmm . . . and what would the _other_ two F’s be?”

 

Scott’s grin turns into an absent and wistful smirk. “ _Fucking_ and _Fraternité_ , of course.”

 

Reyes’s lips twitch. “Of course. Now, what was so urgent that you could only convey that urgency with military jargon?”

 

Scott’s grin fades and he clears his throat gruffly, waving at his monitor, which features many open windows and tabs, but the foremost one appears to be an email.

 

“So, I got an email from my Dad this morning,” he goes on nervously, when Reyes looks back at him in question. “He, ah . . . he’s gonna be back in the city for some sort of Marine-flavored Vet convention next weekend. He and my stepmother, Cora. _Also_ , a retired Marine,” he adds with bemusement, shaking his head. “Anyway, their flight arrives Thursday afternoon. The convention starts Friday morning. But he, um, wants to take Sara and I out for dinner, Thursday night. Us, and our, um . . . romantic partners.”

 

Reyes nods, frowning, and forcing his brain to ponder the point of all this, rather than focusing on the heart-deep pang he experiences at this first mention, in the entire duration of their working relationship, of his creative partner having a . . . _romantic_ partner.

 

“I see,” he says, once more without inflection, but for a bit of stiff formality. He finds himself staring out the window again, as his brain imagines Scott Ryder’s taste in paramours. It starts with long hair and longer legs, and ends with large, possibly fake tits. . . .

 

“Well, there’s more,” Scott goes on with a weary sigh. “Quite a bit more. See, my Dad knows less than zilch about the advertising world. Big surprise, right? Anyway, when you and I got partnered up by the Powers That Be, last year, I mentioned to him via email that I had a new job and new partner—a scarily talented and award-winning writer. I was in a rush and just sorta dashed off a weekly update email, not really thinking, and . . . Dad never mentioned anything about it, so I figured he just wasn’t, um, interested. I mean, I’m the family underachiever, and even when I do something noteworthy . . . well, it’s never noteworthy _enough, y’know?_ ”

 

Reyes does, in fact, know. And he feels another pang that _Scott_ knows, too.

 

“Anyway,” Scott says, glib, but bitter underneath, his eyes flicking to Reyes then away . . . back at the monitor. His hand is light, but tense on the mouse, then falls away. “Anyway, so, long story short, I hear _nothing_ about anything I mentioned in that email. Absolutely nothing. Until three months ago, ah . . . during our monthly phone call. Dad asks if I’m still with that partner I’d mentioned. So, of course, I say _yes_. Things’re going great, he’s freaking _awesome_ , one of the coolest most _amazing_ people I’ve ever known, and that despite our _massive_ differences, we just _work_ together. _Really_ well. To which Dad’s reply is dead silence for almost a minute, a grudging sort of grunt that’s what passes for approval in the Ryder family, and he says: _That’s . . . great, Scotty. And you’re, uh, happy, with this guy_?”

 

Scott’s eyes dart to Reyes’s again. “Me, oblivious dumbass that I am, I fall over myself to gush about how happy I am with my partner. So goddamn over-the-moon. And _lucky_. . . .”

 

Reyes nods again, really frowning, now, because Scott Ryder’s an open book, in some ways, but none of those ways have anything to do with his family dynamic, if he’s not talking about his sister. “That’s . . . flattering, Ryder. We do complement each other, so I’m incredibly gratified to have _you_ as a partner, as well. And quite lucky, myself. Your style is . . . eclectic and spontaneous, but results don’t lie.”

 

Scott snorts then laughs, brief and desperate. “Sure . . . _gratified_. You say that, _now_ , but . . . _damnit_.” Hanging his head, he groans. “ _Damn_ , this is . . . way harder than I thought it would be. Not because of you, but because of . . . because of me, and my weirdness and fucking cowardice on multiple fronts. Not to mention the delusional amounts of wishful-thinking on my part, the lying, and—”

 

“Ryder,” Reyes interjects with gentle wryness, “I’m hoping this increasingly directionless rambling does, in fact, have a direction, after all?”

 

Making a weird, pained sort of grimace, Scott pulls his cap off entirely, smoothing that shiny, salt-and-pepper hair. He tosses the cap on his disordered desk and leans back in his chair, eyes closed tight, pale-bronze face slightly paler than usual.

 

“I swear, this has a point. It’s just . . . kinda difficult for me to get to it. Because I know you’re probably gonna belt me, or at least call me some choice names when I do. Or, not.” Scott laughs again. “Displays of temper aren’t really your style, are they? You’re always so composed and calm and . . . unaffected. That’s, ah, one of many things I admire about you, Rey. And one of the things that makes this whole mess even _more_ difficult and embarrassing to cop to.”

 

 _Really_ frowning, now, Reyes reaches out, as if to put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. But at the last second, he lets his hand drop without making contact. He and Scott have never touched each other, not even in passing, in all the time they’ve known each other. Reyes has noticed this before and, as always, it makes him incredibly frustrated and sad.

 

But now, after almost a year and a half, he doesn’t know how to change that without it being obvious and awkward—two things he _abhors_ being.

 

So, he simply sighs and murmurs, “Ryder . . . _Scott_ ,” and leans against Scott’s desk, at a loss for any other words or actions.

 

“The thing is, it took _so long_ just to get _this_ far with you, y’know? To the point where you’re _not_ just tolerating me till something better comes along or till we stop working together so amazingly, uncannily well.” Scott’s eyes open just a bit: a dark, bright glitter in his unusually grim and tense face. “I don’t want things to be weird between us. Or to go back to the way it was when you hated everything about me.”

 

“Ryder, I’m not sure I _ever_ hated you. Not even your gross habits and Fred Flintstone-feet,” Reyes says, with a laugh of his own. For he can certainly remember those early, benighted days when he’d told himself that he _disliked_ Scott Ryder. But he can’t remember how that feeling _felt_ . . . only that it’d never been hate. Trying to remember anything beyond those bare facts, however, is rather like trying to remember being so young that he’d thought kissing was gross, never mind all the delightful things that kissing often lead to. “Even if I ever had, at this point, that sort of . . . regression _won’t_ happen. I promise.”

 

“Not a promise you can make, Rey.” Scott’s smile is sad and limp, his eyes closing tight again for a few moments. “Not when I tell you what I . . . let happen, and . . . ask you for a favor that really _will_ make you belt me, just for asking in the wake of my . . . confession.”

 

“I’m starting to feel extremely wary about whatever it is you want to tell me—to the point where I _may just_ belt you for drawing it out so long,” Reyes says in a calm voice that very much belies that. Scott’s smile widens a bit and Reyes snorts. “Just tell me, Ryder. There’s little that would make me lose my temper with you, if I haven’t in all this time.”

 

“You say that, now,” Scott mutters again, miserable and rueful. But he opens his eyes and meets Reyes’s gaze solemnly, warily. “So . . . phone call with my Dad, right?”

 

“As I recall, yes,” Reyes agrees. Scott’s mouth tics like he wants to grin, but doesn’t feel he should.

 

“’Kay, so. After I finish gushing about how fucking fantastic _you_ are, Dad grunts again, and says: _Well, I can’t say this is what I’d have chosen for you, Scotty, but damned if you haven’t been happier than I’ve_ ever _seen you. Damned if you haven’t stuck this thing out for the past year. That’s an eternity, for you.”_ Shrugging, Scott’s gaze goes briefly to the window, then back to Reyes. “Me being used to the left-handed compliments, I just say, _yeah, thanks, whatever, Dad_. It’s easier than arguing or defending myself or my life-choices, at this late date. After thirty-four years of banging my head against _that_ brick wall, I’m finally _done_. Finito-complete-o.”

 

Closing his eyes again for a minute, his face a study in pain as old as it is deep, Scott shakes his head. Reyes feels empathy and understanding pool in his head, heart, and gut at this unexpectedly vulnerable facet of his partner. And this time, when Reyes reaches out for Scott’s shoulder, he doesn’t hesitate to make contact—tentative, at first, and light as a feather. But by the time Scott’s startled eyes fly open, Reyes’s hand is firmly gripping the solid muscle under it.

 

“I . . . never knew _my_ father, Ryder. But after my mother left, I was raised by my older half-brother, Carlos. He was, I’m certain you’ll be surprised to find out, in the Air Force. Decorated and respected. A real man’s man. When I was old enough, I joined up, as well, in the hopes that it’d make me more like _him_ and make him . . . less disappointed in _me_.” Reyes shrugs, too, now. “I was less than successful at that. I achieved a higher rank than him and I’m a better pilot, but Carlos was . . . will always, I suspect, be the better _man_.”

 

Scott’s eyes are open wide and steady on Reyes’s.

 

“You’re a better man than you think, Rey,” he says, dead-serious and with that righteous certainty that must be a hereditary Ryder-thing, since Sara Ryder, on the few occasions Reyes has met her, has shown more than a flicker and flare of that unshakable faith in the things she believes in.

 

Reyes is still trying to metabolize the fact that _Scott Ryder_ believes in him and has _faith_ in him, when Scott smiles, small and earnest and hopeful.

 

“You’re . . . you’re the best person I know, actually,” he says quietly, his face turning rather red under his bronzy complexion. Reyes blinks, his mouth dropping open a little. He once again doesn’t know what to say, but Scott saves him from floundering by going on almost immediately, his eyes skittering to his monitor.

 

“Anyway, Dad, uh, says: _For the past year, you’ve been steady, stable, consistent. No job-hopping or getting into fights or trouble. I guess it_ must _be the real thing for you, huh_? To which I responded, _whuh_? Dad laughed and said—with something that might’ve been actual _fondness_ —that he was _proud_ of me for finally making a job and a relationship _work_. For finally giving a shit about something and someone enough to _stay_ with them and tough it out.” Scott’s eyes drift up to Reyes and linger, holding Reyes’s gaze pointedly, but still unreadable for all that intensity.

 

Then they both avert their eyes—Reyes lets go of Scott’s shoulder—looking out the window but without, Reyes knows, really seeing anything. He’s the first to reel his gaze in and sees Scott still scowling out at the city almost angrily.

 

“And then, my disapproving, disappointed, often dyspeptic Dad says: _Listen, I’m an old-fashioned jarhead, Scotty. It’s been difficult for me to accept your lifestyle, and that’s probably not coming as a shock to you. But this guy . . ._ your partner’s _been good for you. And Cora’s been . . . kind of on my case to stop being a caveman about orientation. And about gender, since I’m more accepting about Sara being . . . gay. Both she and Cora have been telling me I’m holding my twin children to wildly different standards, and . . . they’re right. Which means I’m being damned unfair to at least one of you, and an outright asshole. And that’s gonna stop. If this guy is someone you love enough to not only stick with, but be a_ better you for _, then_ damned _if I’m going to keep being_ Angry, Homophobic Dad _over it. If he’s making you happy and making you strive for_ more _, then he’s, uh, alright in my book. And I look forward to meeting this miracle-man. So, don’t mess it up, huh?”_

 

Smirking for a few seconds, a bit bitter, but mostly wry, Scott meets Reyes’s gaze, wary again and still intense. He starts to say something else, but in that moment, Reyes’s uncharacteristically slow synapses start firing and making connections. It takes little more than the space between an exhale and a surprised inhale, for him to grasp what Scott’s trying—has been trying, at length—to tell him.

 

But before he even begins to address _that_ —because this _has_ to be one of Scott’s weird jokes, doesn’t it?—Reyes lets out his breath in another exhale, heavy and long.

 

“You’re gay,” he says in a voice that’s weak and nearly shaking. It’s less a question and more him trying to convince himself he hasn’t gone mad or slipped into an alternate dimension.

 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Can’t slip anything by you, Sherlock. Though that wasn’t really the point of my rambling. . . .”

 

“And your father thinks we’re lovers.”

 

Scott spreads his hands slightly, in an unexpectedly elegant example of understatement, and Reyes laughs, shaking his head.

 

“And for . . . some as yet unexplained reason, you haven’t and are, in fact, reluctant to disabuse him of this notion.”

 

“To put it mildly.” Scott nods once, swinging his feet up onto his desk again, accidentally knocking over a birthday card from the office. “And is it so weird that having my father’s approval for the first time in . . . maybe ever, is something I wanna keep going for as long as I conceivably can?”

 

“When you put it like that. . . .” Reyes frowns and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ah . . . and your father wants to meet me, you said.”

 

“Yep.” Scott grins, big, but fake. “This would be where that favor I need to ask you comes into play.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I imagine you do.” Scott huffs, but his grin softens into something genuine and rather guilty. “I’m not asking for a six-month commitment to pretending you have bad taste in men, Vidal, just . . . part of an evening. It’d make an old Marine you don’t even know from Adam _very_ happy and I would owe you _big time_.”

 

Closing his eyes, Reyes leans back a bit. “Ryder. . . .”

 

“And I promise, it’ll _only_ be for that dinner. After Dad goes back to Virginia, I’ll give it a few weeks and tell him that you and I, uh, broke up.”

 

Reyes sighs once more. “I don’t imagine your father will be too happy to hear that.”

 

“He’ll get over it. He’s used to being unhappy when it comes to me. At least he’ll appreciate the return to form.”

 

Snorting at this resurgence of Scott’s glibness, Reyes opens his eyes and catches Scott staring at him with the strangest expression. But it’s quickly replaced by a devil-may-care grin that’s both like and unlike his usual one.

 

“Perhaps not,” Reyes offers, swallowing around a lump in his throat that’s beating, racing, and breaking like it might be his heart. “It sounds as if working at Nexus has helped you make some . . . positive changes in your life. If you keep moving in that direction, I doubt he’ll even notice that your . . . _partner_ . . . is no longer a factor.”

 

Scott’s expression flickers too fast for Reyes to read, then he looks down.

 

“That’s the thing, to him . . . I mean, once he’s made up his mind. . . .” Scott groans. “Alec Ryder’s decided that I’ve finally found someone who’s inspired me to reform myself. Someone who’s made me wanna be responsible and decent, and the sort of son he can kinda be proud of. In _his_ mind, that’s not down to just me, but down to _you_ , too, Rey. And you’re not just my inspiration but _one of_ those good changes that I should be doing my damnedest to hold onto. Breaking up with you is gonna be a step backwards to him. One that it’s going to be near-impossible for me to recover from. At least in his eyes.”

 

Reyes waits for Scott to look back up before saying. “What if you—we—both explained this whole mess to him truthfully and calmly. Just tell him it was a comedy of errors, and that all the changes you’ve made in your life are down to _you_ pulling _yourself_ up and making improvements. That it’s nothing to do with me, at all.”

 

That limp, strained smile makes a comeback. “We could, I guess. It’d be a laugh, if nothing else. But, I, uh . . . I already lied to my father once about something pretty important. Even though it was by accident. And I’ve _been_ lying to him in the three months since I realized what he’d assumed. I don’t wanna lie to him anymore than I already have been. Once is an accident. Twice is on purpose. Three times and it’s a habit. I’m a lotta less-than-sterling things, but I’ve _never_ been a liar.”

 

Reyes's brows lift in question, even as his stomach churns at Scott’s plain, but striking sincerity. “How would telling your father that you’re _your own_ catalyst for positive change be lying, Ryder? I should think that would be a truth that would make both of you happy.”

 

Scott’s brows lift, too, sardonic and disbelieving. “It’d be lying because I’m _not_ the catalyst for the good changes. Not entirely. I . . . since I started working at Nexus, Rey . . . I _have_ been inspired to shape-up and fly right. To be better and more worthwhile. To be steady and responsible, and the kinda guy that could actually _get_ an incredible guy like the one my father thinks I have.”

 

Reyes’s mouth drops open and his eyes feel like they’re easily the size of dinner plates.

 

“I mean, at first, being creative partners with this incredible guy—who probably _sleeps in a tuxedo_ , he’s so elegant and classy and sophisticated—drove me batshit. I was convinced he was a stuck-up, anal-retentive, OCD Poindexter who just wanted to spoil my fun and rein in my genius.” Scott’s limp smile stretches into a crooked grin once more. “I was an asshole to him for far too long before I finally pulled my head out and realized how . . . fucking _awesome_ he is. Not just professionally, either. I mean, yeah, he’s the best writer I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting, let alone working with. But he’s also kind and funny and generous—and so goddamned _gorgeous_ it makes my _brain hurt_ sometimes. Not to mention my fucking heart. . . .”

 

Reyes’s mouth, in the process of closing, drops open again. _His_ brain has become a white noise-fuzz, his _heart_ is beating fast and unsteady, skipping random beats, and he’s lost all ability to blink.

 

Scott licks his lips nervously, his gaze lowering to his lap, where his hands, large and rough, but capable-looking, rest.

 

“I, uh.” Biting his lip and scowling, Scott pauses before taking a deep, slow breath. “Like I said, I’m a _lotta_ not-good things, Rey. I’m an asshole and a jerk. I’ve . . . been known to drink too much, party too much, fuck around too much . . . _fight_ too much. I’m arrogant and flippant and cynical. And once upon a time, that was fine. It was _good enough_ that that’s all I was. I had no reason to be better than the worst me I could reasonably be. But then you and I got partnered, and . . . yeah, at first it felt like I had to prove something to you—and maybe myself. Prove that I could be upstanding and worthwhile. That I could be all the things no one except Sara ever expects of me, anymore. At first, I just had to be contrary. Defy expectations, or a lack thereof. But then . . . it kinda got under my skin. The way you look at me when I do something good. Your approval. _You_. Just . . . got under my skin in the _worst_ way.”

 

Scott sighs and looks out the window again, his breathing shaking audibly in the stretching silence between them.

 

“You may not have meant to—may not want anything to do with me beyond a cordial professional relationship with the occasional celebratory drink at the end of a stressful day or project. But the fact is . . . I’m pulling myself out of the gutter inch by hard-won inch because I’ve somehow got it stuck in my head that if I work hard enough and try for long enough, one day you’ll look at me and won’t have to be pleased that I’ve done something well or been a good person.” The hands on Scott’s lap twitch restlessly, now, then clench and unclench repeatedly. “Because you’ll just take it for granted that I _am_. That’ll be your expectation of me and for once . . . it’ll be an expectation I can live up to.”

 

Another silence draws out between them, one in which Reyes can’t seem to cobble together a complete thought. It lasts for long enough that Scott finally looks back at him, wary hope and rueful impatience warring on his strong-featured face.

 

“None of which has to change anything between us or mean anything to _you_. It's not _your_ fault you’re a remarkable person in ways I didn’t even know mattered to me, until I met you. And that on top of all that, you’re talented and accomplished and _stunning_. Like—gorgeous as fuck. Which you probably hear all the time, even from guys and even though you’re not gay—”

 

“I’m not,” Reyes agrees softly, though his voice sounds poleaxed to his own ears. He’s always understood the universe to be inherently cruel and, even at its most benign, an indifferent sort of beast. However, he also understands that the universe is _at least_ as strange as it is cruel, and it’s that strangeness, disguised as serendipity, providence, and good luck, that makes the cruelty and indifference bearable. “I’m not gay.”

 

Scott, meanwhile, has paled and deflated, but nods manfully, setting his jaw. “Yeah, I know,” he grits out.

 

“I’m actually bisexual,” Reyes goes on, as if Scott hadn’t spoken. At this moment, he’s running on instinct so raw and elementary, it’s deeper than gut-level. It’s _amygdala-level_. It’s DNA-level, and lighting his nerve-endings on fire with the need to react. His voice, however, is far calmer than his roused reptile brain. “Though my taste in women is . . . pretty terrible.”

 

“I’ll say.” Scott snorts. “I mean, I don’t usually listen to office gossip, but a little birdy mentioned that the reason you left _Outcast Ads_ was because you had a . . . _thing_ with one of the ADs of Marketing, Zia Cordier, and she . . . lost it when you ended said thing. Made a _helluva_ scene. All over Outcast, from what _I’ve_ heard, and _the fuck_ _did you just say_?”

 

Scott’s voice ends on a weirdly high near-squeak, his eyes wide and mouth agape. Reyes wants to _smirk_ —that casual, flirty, _sensual_ smirk that’s been getting him laid since he was fourteen and up until several months after he met Scott Ryder—but all he can do is lean forward and hold Scott’s gaze intently. His entire body is tight with red alert-tension: a semi-painful _fight-flight-freeze_ that makes his neocortex sluggish even as his heart and blood race.

 

“I said . . . my taste in women is pretty terrible. Always has been, I suppose. But my taste in men is . . . _far_ superior. Always has been,” Reyes adds meaningfully.

 

Scott blinks rapidly, then swallows, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing comically. He gives Reyes an incredulous once-over, as if trying to solve some endlessly strange puzzle.

 

“I . . . I,” he finally manages to gulp out, not blushing, but going rather alarmingly pale. He looks extremely upset, which Reyes hadn’t expected, and his confidence in himself, his amygdala, and the inherent strangeness of the universe is totally shaken. “ _Jesus_ , Rey, what does that even _mean_? Are you coming out because I did—like a solidarity-thing? Or are you teasing me with the thing I want most and am totally _not_ worthy of? Or am I . . . am I maybe _not_ wrong in hoping that despite having _far superior_ taste in men, you . . . might be willing to suspend those standards for a bit? Maybe give a work-in-progress a fighting chance at winning you over?”

 

And if Reyes had been uncertain about Scott before—from the moment he realized his usually spot-on gaydar-pings regarding Scott could very easily just be a case of his own projection and wishful thinking, to the moment Scott came out to him a few minutes ago—the naked fear and towering courage shining out of Scott’s entire being, as well as the unhidden hope and yearning in his dark eyes, grounds him in moments. Settles him in body and mind, heart and soul, in a way he’d long since decided he never would be.

 

Instead of answering Scott, Reyes stands deliberately, slowly, a small smirk touching his lips. Scott’s eyes follow him intently, still scared and brave and vulnerable. Reyes holds that gaze for a minute before turning toward the door. He strolls to it with legs that feel numb and weak, and puts his shaking hand on the knob.

 

The closing _snick_ is soft, but final in the otherwise silent office, and Reyes takes a slow, shallow breath as he moves toward his desk. He picks up the still-warm handouts and drops them on the floor nearer the wall than the door, then leans on the edge of his desk and meets Scott’s confused gaze.

 

He even cranks up the smirk to levels it hasn’t reached since his slutty Air Force-days.

 

“You. Me. _My_ desk, Ryder,” he says, dismayed that his voice shakes, but thankful it doesn’t actually crack.

 

Scott’s eyes get so wide, Reyes actually chuckles, his nerves abating just a bit.

 

“But. . . .” Scott huffs out, breathless and faint. Reyes lets the smirk deepen.

 

“Did I _stutter_ , soldier? _Triple-time_.”

 

Scott blinks once more, his mouth opening and closing like a clubbed trout, before his feet are on the floor and he’s out of the chair. Said chair skids away from his desk, to rebound against the wall, as he strides across the office, his face set and determined.

 

Then, Scott’s in Reyes’s personal bubble and in his _arms_. Those big, square, artist’s hands settle on Reyes’s waist as he gazes into Reyes’s eyes. This close, Reyes notices there’s a slight height difference between them—less than an inch in Reyes’s favor. Regardless, Scott feels so _right_. The only way he could feel more so is if he were even closer than the mere inches that separate their bodies.

 

So, Reyes tightens his arms around Scott’s neck, and Scott grins and moves closer, until his body is pressed lightly against Reyes’s. He feels solid and warm. Feels like all the things Reyes has been missing and hasn’t even realized he lacked until now, when he suddenly _has them_.

 

He wants to live in this intense and satisfying moment forever, even as he fears being subject to it for one second longer. Frantically, his mind tries to craft just the right sardonic phrase to shatter this spell. The instinct is not a smart or good one, but it, too, is strong enough that Reyes can’t resist it. He opens his mouth to say something that will surely make Scott regret baring his soul—something callous and pointedly averse. It’s an old, and tried and true defense-mechanism that Reyes has relied on since he was very young, in moments of vulnerability and defensiveness.

 

But Scott, clearly running on his own strong instincts, doesn’t give him the chance to let fly with any sort of snide, snarky nonsense. Simply darts in and captures Reyes’s partly-open mouth, humming and grunting low in his throat as he quickly leaves off teasing Reyes’s lips for mapping the interior of his mouth. Scott tastes sweet, salty, and slightly bitter, and his tongue is shameless and agile, like a riled serpent. His right hand leaves Reyes’s waist to cup his face with surprising tenderness and gentility, even as his left hand slides around to the small of Reyes’s back. Then down to his ass.

 

Reyes moans and huffs a laugh through his nose when Scott presses against him intently, all heat and hardness . . . and _hardness_. The edge of the desk bites into the backs of Reyes’s thighs and he sits automatically, spreading those thighs so Scott can stand between them. As in their professional endeavors, Scott takes cues beautifully, and in seconds, Reyes is wrapping his legs around Scott’s and pulling him close, tight and flush.

 

By the time the kiss ends due to a need for oxygen and a better long-term position, they’re both panting and laughing a little. Reyes has removed the rubber band in Scott’s hair and the man-bun is now a long, sleek fall halfway down Scott’s back. Meanwhile, Scott is brushing his fingers along the curve of Reyes’s cheek, as if he’s touching a fragile work of art. But it isn’t long before Scott’s thumb is running along Reyes’s lower lip, his eyes dilated and half-lidded, heated and possessive.

 

“These walls are paper-thin,” he says, rather apologetically.

 

“Yes,” Reyes agrees, just as regretfully, pouting for a moment, before the smirk returns. He flicks his tongue across the tip of Scott’s thumb and the other man moans softly, his eyes fluttering shut. “Practically papier Mache.”

 

“And it’d be backsliding if I didn’t _care_ how paper-thin these walls are, huh?”

 

Reyes chuckles and shimmies against Scott as much as he can, _because_ he can. “Probably, yes.”

 

“Fuuuuuuck.” Scott groans, then sighs, opening his eyes. His gaze is so open and unshielded, it takes Reyes’s breath away. “I know we’re not—I mean, we haven’t even talked about what we want from each other—”

 

“You. Only you. For as long as possible,” Reyes says plainly, and Scott shivers and grins, big and somewhat dazed.

 

“Wow. Okay, that’s . . . _yeah_. I want the same things. With _you_ , that is. I want . . . _so much_.” Scott laughs, self-deprecating and quiet. “More than I’ve ever dared. Though, at the moment, I literally can’t think past my very _first_ fantasy involving you.”

 

“Hmm . . . do tell.” Reyes chuckles when Scott blushes. Neither of them, however, break eye-contact.

 

“Well, in essence . . . it’s us, in this office, kissing and teasing each other, driving each other crazy. Then, me bending you over one of our desks, both of us still mostly dressed and absolutely _frantic_ for it. For _each other_. And . . . holy _God_ , but you’re hot and tight and fucking _incandescent_ , moaning like a porn-star, and holding onto the edge of the desk for dear life. Taking it _all_ and _still_ demanding more. And everything you do and every sound you make—everything you _are_ —just makes me harder and more desperate to fuck my way to the core of you. To crawl into you and make you my permanent home.” Scott’s brow furrows for a few seconds, then he rocks against Reyes hard and fast. Reyes gasps as the desk shakes and thuds against the wall. “Even going as deep as humanly possible isn’t _nearly_ deep enough, but still, I come. Right after you do, clamping down on me so tight and perfect and _unbearable_ , that I explode like a fucking supernova. Just . . . light and heat and force. . . .”

 

Reyes shivers, deep and prolonged. “And . . . do I shout your name for the whole office to hear in this fantasy?”

 

Scott blushes. “Well. My name and three _other_ words . . . but admittedly that’s more of a recent addition to the fantasy.”

 

His own face aflame, Reyes’s smirk wants to be a ridiculous grin, too.

 

“My desk . . . the one in my _home_ office, is an ancient, oak monstrosity. And it’s _much_ sturdier than this Office Max-crap,” he notes, leaning in to nuzzle Scott’s stubbly jaw.

 

“Is that so. . . ?”

 

“Very much so, Ryder,” Reyes purrs into their kiss when Scott turns his face up and claims his lips again.

 

“Then we should _definitely_ work from home for the rest of the day. For _all_ the days, actually.” Scott’s hand leaves Reyes’s ass and snakes between their bodies. It isn’t long before Reyes is hissing as Scott squeezes and teases his cock through his trousers and boxers. “Starting now. Right-the-fuck- _now_.”

 

“But— _oh, Scott_ —what about the status meeting and the animatics?”

 

Scott leans back, an expression of petulant irritation on his face. His hand, however, keeps up its stroking. “If you can _still_ remember those animatics, Vidal. . . .”

 

“Well, it took me _forever_ to print them out. So, we’re _going_ to use them.”

 

Scott steals another kiss, brief and sweet, but it nonetheless leaves Reyes breathless. “Ugh. _Fine_. We suffer through the meeting, until it’s time to show our printouts, then duck outta that time-vampire at the _first_ opportunity and go back to your place. It’s Friday, half the office’ll have gone AWOL by one, anyway.”

 

“Clever thinking.” Reyes clutches tighter at Scott, gazing up into dark eyes that are so close, he can’t see anything else. “But we still have the better part of an hour until the meeting. How-ever will we fill the time?”

 

“Well . . . I have a few ideas I’d like to run by you,” Scott murmurs, then a moment later, drops to his knees with a fluid grace that’s even more of a turn-on because it’s so obviously practiced and familiar. He holds Reyes’s gaze as he unbuttons then unzips Reyes’s fly. With a little adjustment, Reyes is poking out of his boxers, looking utterly ridiculous. But apparently not to Scott, who takes the sight of him in with a series of appreciative glances between Reyes’s face and his cock. “Jeez, Rey, even your damn _dick_ is gorgeous. I wanna taste you so fucking _bad_ , I’ll probably come just from blowing you.”

 

Scott sounds exasperated and amused, and Reyes smiles down into those dark, worshipful eyes. “Flattering as that would be . . . try _not_ _to_ , eh, Ryder? And as a reward, I’ll give you some helpful hints as to why my nickname’s been _Mouth_ for most of my adult life.”

 

Once more, Scott’s wide-eyed and gaping . . . then he’s kissing and licking his way around and down Reyes’s cock in a terrific, tortuous tease. This attention forces a whimper from Reyes that cuts off on a deep gasp as Scott’s hands grasp his ass. He hitches Reyes closer, simultaneously taking him in, until a mild and unhurried gag-reflex twitches the soft, wet muscles near the top of Scott’s throat.

 

Scott holds him there, however, riding out the warning spasm and swallowing around a shuddering, shaking, and moaning Reyes. Soon, the hand in Scott’s long, salt-and-pepper hair is tight and Reyes’s customary cool is gone, gone, gone.

 

“ _Fuck_ , you’re so _hot_ ,” Scott pants harshly, when he pulls off Reyes brief, eternal minutes later, taking deep breaths between lingering kisses pressed to the underside of Reyes’s now fully-erect cock. He runs scorching, urgent hands up and down Reyes’s thighs. “You even _taste good_. Fuck-fuck- _fuck_! Maybe it’s . . . better that we’re _not_ gonna fuck _right now_ , because I wouldn’t last five seconds inside you, at this rate, without taking the edge off, first,” he exhales, still hoarse and husky. His face is dazed and dopey and affectionate, despite the firm grasp Reyes still has in his hair . . . his eyes are shining and happy. And when Reyes tugs on Scott’s hair, sharp and peremptory, Scott beams. He _glows_. “Man, but it’d be some five seconds, though!”

 

“Why am I not surprised that you’re chatty even when you’re ostensibly sucking cock?”

 

His beaming grin going from pure sunshine to dangerous moonlight in seconds, Scott leans in to mouth, lick, and whisper on the damp, heated skin of Reyes's cock: “I guess after all this time, you’re _finally_ recognizing my mad, multitasking skills, Vidal. ‘Bout damn time.”

 

Reyes chuckles, then moans as Scott grabs his cock again with eager greed, those shining eyes locked on his own, steady and true, but for both their blinking. Scott’s breath is soft and warm, and more arousing in its sweet promise than the dirtiest blowjob Reyes has ever had. He traces Scott’s features with reverent, admiring fingers before re-anchoring his hand firmly in Scott’s hair.

 

He’s _not_ imagining the fiery flash in those unguarded, hungry eyes.

 

“Fuck, Reyes—” Scott mumbles breathlessly, lips teasing the underside of Reyes’s cock once more, his eyes fluttering and flashing. His hands clamp down bruising tight on Reyes’s hips, and _Reyes_ swears as his hips stutter helplessly forward, to the Magnetic North they hadn’t known they needed. “I’ve wanted this for _so long_. . . .”

 

“Shut up, and blow me, Ryder,” comes grunting-sighing out of Reyes, harsh and desperate, tough and tender, not awkward, but quite obvious. He slides past Scott’s sinful lips when they part and into the wet, warm, welcoming haven of his mouth, all to the furious pounding of his own heart and the rhythmic clenching of his hand in Scott’s hair. He slowly works his way to the threshold of Scott’s gag-reflex, and is greeted by flutters and spasms that draw low, almost despairing—and quite likely _indiscreet_ , with the thinness of the walls—groans from them both. But neither of them care. They simply gaze into each other’s eyes, still and waiting.

 

“Please,” Reyes finally breathes, as Scott’s eyebrows lift gently, his eyes shining brighter than ever. And: “Scott.”

 

The muscles around the tip of Reyes’s cock give a few last twitches and then . . . Scott’s dark eyes flutter shut. A moment later, Reyes is being taken _beyond_ the point of that gag-reflex threshold, slow and careful, but with the intense determination and dedication that Scott Ryder brings to all the things which truly matter to him.

 

“ _Please_ ,” Reyes hitches again, his voice as wrecked and ruined as if he’d been shouting. There are tears running down his face, hot and heedless, and Scott . . . happily obliges the wordless request that echoes in the silence.

 

And nothing more gets said until sometime later. Until they slink into the status meeting, twenty-three minutes late, in fact. They’re slightly disheveled and more than a little flustered—animatics forgotten in their office, sitting next to Reyes’s chair—and though Reyes has mostly managed to project his customary sanguinity, Scott’s still beaming. A loopy, almost-drunk grin curves his use-swollen, still-tempting lips.

 

Reyes doesn’t even have to follow the simultaneous, downward ticks of everyone’s gazes to suddenly realize that he and Scott are holding hands. . . .

 

“Sorry, our computers froze! Technology, amirite?” Scott lies cheerfully, poorly, and Reyes only barely manages not to facepalm. He certainly doesn’t try to free his hand from Scott’s possessive grasp, at this point, as that would only add accelerant to an already blazing fire. He simply sighs, and supposes it could always be worse . . . after all, one or both of their flies could still be open and they could be unwittingly exposing themselves to their colleagues. . . .

 

 _That would be absolutely mortifying_ , he thinks with nervous irony that steadily turns into sudden and cold certainty, because, of course. _Of course_ , flashing the entire creative team _right after_ having semi-noisy, indiscreet office-sex with _Scott Ryder_ , would be just Reyes’s luck. He doesn’t even look down to confirm it. He has no intention of drawing more unwanted attention to what he doubts is just his own paranoia.

 

But when everyone _continues_ to stare at them, specifically at hand—or _groin_ —level, Reyes holds his head high, even as all the blood drains from his face, and he strongly reconsiders Scott’s suggestion that they work from home for the rest of ever. With each passing second, it’s growing more and more unlikely that either of them will be able to show their faces at the office again. Or for at least a good six or eight months. Assuming they just get written up and not fired, which may be quite a _lot_ to assume, considering.

 

Meanwhile, Scott’s still babbling obliviously . . . something about firewalls and proxy servers and protocols: facile bullshit that only _he_ buys, and Reyes—

 

—Reyes squares his shoulders, and clutches at Scott’s big, warm, rough hand for strength. And he _definitely does not look down_.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts:
> 
> From stitchcasual: _"you, me, my desk" Points for Scott saying it_
> 
> From Squiggly_squid: _How about character A says something that they are thinking aloud about Character B and get all sorts of flustered?_
> 
> Say HEY on [Tumblr](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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